Title: The proper placeAuthor: VestaPairing: Finch/ReeseRating: R/NC-17Category: PWP, First time (almost)Warnings: NoneFeedback: Yes please, if you would be so kind.Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me,

Summary: He leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk. Harold never did that, he always sat primly or hunched over, asleep on the keyboard. There was something definitely naughty about sitting with his feet on Harold's desk.

Author's note: This is the first fic I've posted in years. This makes me nervous. It's also my first PoI fic, which also makes me nervous.

It was just a chair. A plain, ordinary desk chair. An empty chair, since Harold wasn't in the Library yet. Reese looked at it while he sipped his coffee. It looked so wrong without Harold in it.

The sun managed to shine through some of the dirty plastic hanging from the scaffolding, laying a golden haze over the room. He could see marks on the table, where Harold had spilled tea, the donuts had left smears of sugar. The chair, worn, the leather slightly crackled from use. It squeaked a little when he pulled it out and sat down. He was heavier than Harold, the chair wasn't used to that. The thought pulled a chuckle from him, like the chair could tell who sat in it.

He tapped his fingers against the keyboard, imagining Harold's fingers, flying like butterflies over the keys. Didn't let himself think of how those fingers would touch him. Tried to not think about how they would feel, stroking his cheek while his mouth was full. Reese shook his head, there was no use in going down that road again. He had been there too many times already.

The worst was the itch, the feeling he couldn't shake. Reese wanted and he wasn't used to wanting. Needs were taken care of and distances kept. The wanting had never been a problem. Not until now.

He leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk. Harold never did that, he always sat primly or hunched over, asleep on the keyboard. There was something definitely naughty about sitting with his feet on Harold's desk. The thoughts came back-uninvited- how Harold would react, what Harold would do to Reese if he came in and saw this. Reese shook his head again to get rid of the unwanted-futile-thoughts. What he wanted would never happen, he had to make do with what he got.

Alone in his bed, he could indulge. There he could let loose the thoughts, his wants. No one would know, especially Harold. It had taken Reese less than five minutes to figure out the angles where the cameras outside could catch him and he stayed out of those angles. None of the electronics in his apartment were bugged, he had checked but found nothing-just as expected. Harold could be controlling but he would never overstep the boundaries like that. Which was-in truth- a shame. If Harold had overstepped- in some burst of overprotective zeal- he would have gotten a show or two. Even alone, Reese was imaginative, he would like to show off for Harold. He did, every day on the job, but there were other things he would like to show as well.

The Library was not the place for indulgence, but the chair was comfortable, the thoughts it created were inspiring. Reese sank a little lower in the chair, tipping it backwards a little more. Indulgence, indeed.

What would Harold do, if he caught Reese like this? Would he stare him down, pointedly chasing him away from chair and desk? Would he say something? He definitely would. He would say, Reese imagined, "That is not your place, Mr. Reese."

"No?" Reese would answer. "Where is my place then?"

Harold would step closer, leaning a little over him. "You know very well where it is."

Reese shuddered slightly, because yes, he knew where his place was. Harold would be very particular about that, not letting him slip up and claim otherwise. There were times when you needed your control, and times when to yield it. Reese really wanted to yield his control to Harold because Harold would take care of him.

Putting his hand on his crotch wasn't a conscious action, it just landed there, lightly rubbing at the hardness. Thinking of Harold like that always made him hard. Sitting in Harold's chair, thinking, made it even more so. Really, what was wrong with a little bit of indulgence from time to time? The relief Reese had gotten lately was bought relief. Nothing compared to what he wanted, but sufficient, to keep him still on the edge, ready to act.

The impulse to open his pants and put his hand inside wasn't a conscious thought either. But he figured that Harold would like to see him pleasure himself, directing him, and Reese needed to be on his knees for that. On his knees in front of the chair, facing Harold so Harold could see him. See him being good, see him doing this because Harold told him to. On his knees so he could serve, could be used.

Harold would tell him to take it slow, to drag it out. Show himself. And he would like it. Harold's approval had gone from meaning nothing to everything. Reese hadn't acknowledged the thought before, but it was a fact. Harold liked and Reese was happy. Harold frowned, Reese tried his best for a do-over.

He would need several do-overs for Harold to be happy with him. To approve of him. Not for John being John- that was always approved of- but for his performance. Harold was, after all, a very particular person. The one thing that had caught Reese's interest from the beginning, as soon as he had met 'Mr. Finch' in person, was the demand for perfection. Or maybe not perfection but the attempt for perfection, when you did something- you did it good. Your best, no matter what. Devotion. Reese had devotion enough for Finch, if he ever let him show it.

The chair creaked a little when he shifted position, sank even lower in it. His belt, unbuckled, scraped against his hand. The notion of what Harold would do to him if he found him like this was intriguing. A puzzle. Finch would call him Mr. Reese, no doubt about that. He would put him in his place, but not cruelly. He would show appreciation, for what for Reese was capable of. He would let Reese touch him, open his pants and beckon John forward.

Leaning forward from his kneeling position shouldn't be a problem, he would gain even more approval for how smoothly he'd do it. Lean forward, lick up Harold's dick and slowly suck the head into his mouth. That should earn him a moan and a pat on the head, maybe even Harold's fingers twining through his hair, holding him in place, guiding him.

Reese wondered- he had from time to time- if the effect would be same if Harold were situated somewhere else. Not in the chair but on a couch, by a kitchen table, stretched out on a bed. Inhaling the faint smell of leather from the chair he sat in, he tried on the thoughts. He shied away from the notion of Harold on a bed, that was to presumptuous, and it would be difficult for Reese to maintain his proper place with Harold stretched out like that. Perhaps later on, if Harold would allow it. No, on his knees was the preferred position, but it didn't really matter where. Harold would be so much more comfortable on a couch, and with a little luck, Reese could kneel on a soft carpet.

The first time though, should definitely be in the Library, with Harold in his chair. Reese's pulse was quickening, and his dick hard in his hand. He squeezed it gently, wanting to drag it out, just as he would for Harold, waiting for permission, but it was difficult to wait for it. He wanted so much, wanted to please Harold, make him smile that quick smile of his. Make him moan and tell John how good he was doing. "That's very good, John, very good." He could almost hear Finch's voice, murmuring at him. Almost feel Finch's hands, stroking his cheeks, his hair, carefully guiding him in the right rhythm. Almost taste Harold on his tongue, heavy and thick, hot and salty.

Reese groaned, he was getting close, his hand speeding up. The chair creaked with the rhythmic movements, John rocking slightly and pushing his dick through his hand. Harold's hand in his hair would tighten when Harold got close. Maybe he warned Reese, tried to pull him off before Harold came in his mouth, down his throat. But probably not, Harold would want him to take it all.

Maybe he would get a kiss when he was done, had swallowed everything. That sent another shiver through him, it implied such closeness, and Reese hadn't kissed anyone in a long time. He wanted that as well, that closeness. His balls were pulling up, dick swelling even more, so ready to shoot. Reese let go for a moment, tried to breathe, suck his lungs full of air. Licked his hand, made it wet. The slick grip when he put his hand back made him wish for lube. Harold could use the lube, stroke Reese with it, push his fingers inside to open him up. Reese would want that, beg for it. Beg for Harold to own him.

The soft thump from the doorway yanked him brutally from his dreams. Harold was standing there, looking at him, with the dropped briefcase at his feet. Reese's first reaction was to run-hide. But hide where? How could he ever erase the picture of him, hand down his pants, flushed red, from Harold's mind? He couldn't. No matter how fragile the situation had become, no matter the consequence, there was only one thing to do. He had put himself in this situation- with his indulgence- and now he had to get himself out of it.

Slowly Reese pulled his hand back, did up the buttons- one by one- put his feet back on the floor. Harold was still looking at him, barely blinking, steady gaze measuring him. This was the moment where Reese's place was indeed established. Without breaking eye contact, Reese slipped from the chair down onto his knees and held out the chair for Harold. Then he waited.

Harold inclined his head a fraction, that small smile flickered over his lips and he took the steps necessary forward, sat down in the chair. "Good, Mr. Reese, very good," he said and stroked a finger down John's cheek. "Now, come here."